


él vive como la lluvia

by cloudburst



Category: Sense8 (TV)
Genre: M/M, these are literally just drabbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudburst/pseuds/cloudburst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet when he whispers <em>'te amo,'</em> in your ear, lips slowly descending—you have no doubts.<br/>--<br/>just a collection of drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. fuego

**Author's Note:**

> #writingdryspell
> 
> also, warning. My writing style is kinda weird tbh.

When you look at him, it's indescribable—unlike anything, as is the nature of the very word itself, when rolling off of your lips. 

_'Indescriptible.'_

There is no doubt in your mind, that this man is the love of your life—ignites a fire within you meant to burn homes, scorch cities beneath a blaze of anything but deceit and lackluster words. 

You are the temperamentally heated sun, infamous across all of Mexico—flaming, murdering all in its path till the tempered, blue moon pulls you back under once more. 

It is not a weakness to surrender in the dark. 

This is found out on the nights where lips latch to his skin—breaking him down beneath any and all of your more than sensual touches. 

It is a love from the center of a star, destined to burn out—yet not in your lifetime. 

—and the cosmos realize this, thrust heaven upon you in the form of Sunday morning kisses, and Sunday brunch touches to last till the day's end. Or then god has loved you fondly in the wrinkles around eyes that wish to never leave you—in chunky frames of the glasses you love removing mid-night. 

Beautiful isn't just. So you decide it is best of the occasion to use words long lost to you, and many others. The correct ones do not exist. 

You decide not to speak at all on that night—arms around him, hoping to sleep soundly. 

It is cliché—sounds more like a line from one of your movies than anything uttered in reality—yet, you feel this was your destiny. 

—to lay there, heart in your throat as he sleeps, ribcage on the verge of collapsing. 

And of course, you will never say this aloud. Though he feels the same. 

For if your love is an art, you've decided that Hernando must be the one to create—the one to mix colors until you feel the two of you could never be separated again. 

It is not quite one color—yet not quite another.

It is indescribable, very much like the artist himself.

You are no longer trapped.

He loves you.

And you are free.


	2. thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _lazy, lazy._

There is nothing more magical than a thunderstorm, in your opinion—not when your mother would wrap you in her arms as a small child, murmuring reassurances in a voice meant to sooth any and all ailments. 

_"Es la ira de dios, mijo."_

And you find that you've taken that place now, the world more grey than it has any right to be—with his back pressed to your chest. 

It's warm, and you have no wishes to wake him. 

—suppose that's why you find your index finger pressed to your lips at the reluctant appearance of Nomi, her own smile relaxing you before fading out completely. 

Most likely in a similar situation—she understands. 

But your efforts bear you nothing besides Hernando rolling in your grip to face you—pulling back slightly to view your furrowed brow. 

The storm continues. Your heart beats faster.

"Go back to sleep, mijito."

His scoff is barely noted—teeth grazing gently across your chest. 

"I'm not little."

But you ignore it this time, arms still around him and exhaling a floating sigh like the ones of your mother—when she would hold you instead of your sisters, as roaring thunder severed your thoughts. 

You think on the past, while recognizing the present—the future.

Maybe, this life is good. 

Yet when he whispers _'te amo,'_ in your ear, lips slowly descending—you have no doubts.


	3. bubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _sundays are always slow._

You're not entirely sure how it ended up this way—his back to your soaped chest, arms around his waist. 

Yet, you also find that some things are not meant to be questioned—merely observed as they fall into the everchanging flow of a day you'd not spend elsewhere. For this moment in time, is perfect—not a portion you'd trade for anything. 

And his voice is low, rumbling from a body plastered to your front in the large tub—nearly inaudible hum of contentment passing his lips, fingers trailing paths along the skin of your arms. "And what was the inspiration for all of this?"

Forehead pressing to the back of his head—water droplets running slowly down your face, your voice is muffled. You don't mind. You're loosening your hold on his waist, only slightly—and you squeeze him gently before relaxing against the lukewarm backside of the bathtub. "What? I cannot spoil you?" He scoffs at the question—and you can feel him shaking against you with silent laughter. "Should I be offended at this reaction?"

He's tracing shapes across the top of your hands now—with an expression that you'd imagine to be like the smile when he rises from bed late in the afternoon: lethargic, but all too aware. 

You cannot be sure, though.

"Not so much offended, as concerned." Turning in the tub to face you, leaning forward—his lips pressed to the prominent cheekbone of your left; his words are quiet. Yet you hear perfectly. "I am onto you, Lito Rodriguez." 

"I would have it no other way."


	4. deluge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's in a remedy?

There are times when you're unsure as to how you'd prepared to live without him.

—and it's in these moments of self reflection, you find that you never had been. 

Between the inhumane sobbing, and dull ache in your chest to rival any prior—you'd never readied yourself for such a strike to your supposedly impenetrable armor. 

—never truthfully understood what it would have meant to _lose_ Hernando. Though, you think he'd been the one to lose you. And for good reason—pushing you over the edge, allowing you to fall into your own, self-divisive trap. 

It had forced you to find certain scattered pieces of yourself within the wreckage. Because you'd known where you had existed all along—in a state of foolishness and amongst a plane of disregard for the impacts of your actions. 

And then you decide that no, you had lost yourself—nearly as terrifying and existentially fraught as the love of your life removing himself, from said existence. 

—because you could not find importance of the important, the necessity in the necessary—

Your flaws came down upon you with the vengeance of a mother, your mother, threatening with _las chancletas_ as a small child. But you found remedy. And this despite the notion that before the Ben  & Jerry's—you'd been a mess of tears like a deluge. 

You cannot deny that you had been—misplacing a flip flop, the water not running. It was all a series of catastrophic events, and there had been no end in sight. 

It was a mess. You'd been a mess—staining your own breath, existence, with each negative thought. 

But messes can be remedied with mop or broom—sponge or towel. Though, in your case, remedies exist among the crinkle of his eyes when he smiles—or lazy Sunday mornings when nothing exists but bedsheets and skin. 

And in the fist of a German boy from East Berlin.

**Author's Note:**

> my spanish is not the greatest so if I mess anything up, please, please, please tell me! :)


End file.
